


Less Chuck Bartowski vs. Kidnapping, More Bryce Larkin vs. Shared Histories and Government Promises

by tuesday



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle VII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-28
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesday/pseuds/tuesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Chuck is kidnapped, rescued, and kidnapped again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Less Chuck Bartowski vs. Kidnapping, More Bryce Larkin vs. Shared Histories and Government Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle VII for the prompt "kidnap." Thanks so much to my awesome beta, [](http://thecomfychair.livejournal.com/profile)[**thecomfychair**](http://thecomfychair.livejournal.com/). This is actually the second thing I've written in Chuck fandom (the first is in beta), and as I'll do with the first and any other Chuck fic, I blame its existence on [](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/profile)[**svmadelyn**](http://svmadelyn.livejournal.com/).

Chuck had been kidnapped any number of times. By Sarah, by Casey, by the bad guy of the week—it was all part of the package of being the only operational copy of the Intersect. It was even starting to become disturbingly ordinary, almost mundane. When the door blew off the hinges and a figure was barely visible through the smoke, Chuck climbed wearily to his feet and spoke over the ringing in his ears, "Did you think to knock and be sure I wasn't standing in front of the door before you started blowing things up, Casey?"

Then the smoke dissipated further, and the figure who drew closer and closed his hand around Chuck's elbow was definitely not one of his two handlers.

"You're not—"

"Supposed to be here, I know," Bryce said and flashed Chuck a brief, charming smile before tugging him out of the room and into a hallway that was industrial chic, all streamlined cement and metal and, like the previous room, no windows, just harsh phosphorescent lights. Chuck thought it was just wrong that someone bleeding in at least two places—a gash visible at Bryce's shoulder, cutting through his jacket and dress shirt, and another nick skating along his left cheekbone—could manage to look so dashing and cool. Chuck couldn't decide if it was the effect of the torn, disheveled suit or simply the unexpectedness of seeing Bryce again, but the image of that fleeting smile left a disproportionate mark on Chuck, imprinted itself on his memory and wormed its way deep in his chest. Chuck couldn't bring himself to protest or ask questions as he raced after Bryce, past slumped bodies and the occasional smear of blood or line of bullet holes.

What followed included: a car chase; a gun fight; another car chase; some explosions; switching vehicles several times; driving several boring, but harrowing hours; and staggering into a cheap motel where Chuck dressed Bryce's wounds with shaking hands, trying to remember everything Ellie had ever taught him about first aid. Once the worst, most exciting, becoming almost monotonously terrifying parts of being a spy were dealt with, Bryce issued Chuck another tired, too well pleased smile, and all the questions that had been shoved aside came flooding back.

They were still standing in the dingy bathroom with Bryce's dress shirt discarded in the sink and the first aid kit Chuck had found in the duffel bag from Bryce's original car lying open and pillaged on the counter. Chuck pressed his fingers lightly against the gauze bandages he'd wrapped around Bryce's shoulder and swallowed hard.

"When are Sarah and Casey coming to pick me up?" he asked. When are you leaving again, he didn't say.

"They aren't," Bryce said, and his eyes were soft, now, like Chuck had only seen a few times before—(when they'd finished their first run of their newly finished text adventure; when Chuck had come back from a final and collapsed on Bryce's bed because it was nearest the door; once after Bryce had disappeared for several days their junior year and Chuck had been frantic, admitted he'd skipped classes to follow Bryce's schedule and felt like a total stalker, and Bryce had brushed a hand against Chuck's cheek and said "Thanks," and collapsed in Chuck's bed despite it being furthest from the door, no explanations)—a very long time ago.

"So you're taking me back to them?" Chuck said, and he couldn't have explained why, but his voice was a little higher, his throat tight with something like panic but entirely unlike fear. He might have called it anticipation.

"Later," Bryce said and put one hand over Chuck's where he was making nervous little circles against Bryce's bandages. He placed the other along the side of Chuck's neck, thumb sliding up to rest against Chuck's jawline and cheek. Chuck knew he needed to shave (his captors hadn't let him have a razor, and his stubble was attempting to grow out to fuzz), but Bryce didn't seem to mind, making tiny sweeps back and forth, producing a quiet rasping sound.

Bryce leaning in was new, as were his lips nudging Chuck's open, his tongue sliding in. Chuck still had questions, but they seemed unimportant in the face of this, of Bryce asking with his body and taking when Chuck's actions were a helpless chorus of permission. This, at least, was an answer to a question Chuck had never been able to bring himself to ask.

When Bryce pushed back from the counter, kept his hand linked to Chuck's as he led the way out of the bathroom and toward the bed, Chuck's only desired course of action was to follow.

—

They started out gentle. Chuck was afraid to press too hard against Bryce's many scrapes and bruises, to put any weight on Bryce's injured shoulder. Chuck didn't know what Bryce's reasons were, but his hands skimmed soft like feathers against Chuck's skin, and the kisses he littered along Chuck's face and neck were mere brushes of skin, like he was worried that at any instant Chuck might shatter under the weight of his touch.

It didn't take long for them to transition to rushed, almost desperate. Bryce fumbled at the buttons of Chuck's over-shirt, impeded by Chuck's own impatient fingers, and finally Chuck just pulled both the button-up and the t-shirt underneath over his head, flung them to the side. While Chuck was distracted in doing so, Bryce had already disposed of Chuck's belt and undone his slacks. In his attempt to wriggle out of them without moving too far away from Bryce and the distracting stretches of skin revealed as Bryce removed his own slacks, Chuck slipped and fell off of the bed.

Chuck picked himself up off the thin carpet, torn between indignant and sheepish as Bryce laughed at him. It was easier to remove his socks and boxers while standing anyway, Chuck told himself, and then he crawled back into the bed, determined to wipe the grin off of Bryce's face. It didn't work very well. Bryce kept smiling into every kiss, flipped them over and pressed his curved lips into the hollow of Chuck's neck, the dip of his chest, trailing nipping kisses down Chuck's stomach.

Chuck found Bryce's smile contagious, right up until he realized exactly where that smile and mouth were heading.

"Bryce—" Chuck said, throat gone tight again.

"Later," Bryce said again, reassurance and grim promise.

Chuck would have protested he had no plans to ask any questions, but at that moment, Bryce reached his destination, and Chuck couldn't muster the will to say anything remotely coherent, not even to protest that maybe he didn't want to talk about it at all. He clenched his hands in the scratchy cotton sheets, stared at Bryce's dark hair and blown pupils, at his stretched red lips—and it was too much, entirely too much, so Chuck shut his eyes and concentrated on the feel of wet and heat and Bryce's hands spreading Chuck's thighs further apart.

Chuck tried not to think of how fast it would be over or how they'd reached this point; tried not to think of the bandages that he'd smoothed down with his fingertips against Bryce's skin; or how Bryce's shoulder had kept oozing blood during the last, long car ride. Chuck tried not to remember Bryce's face, pale and uncertain before he'd gifted Chuck the smile and clasped Chuck's elbow to pull him out and away; or the room, the cell, and walking the ten paces along each wall, or the drugs and needles that came at dizzying, unexpected intervals; and most of all, the hands that had come in the night and ripped him from his bedroom and the ominous silence from the rest of the house in response to his own shouts and flailing struggles.

Chuck tried not to think at all, but it didn't work very well.

Afterward, Bryce shook off Chuck's questing hands and attempts at reciprocation and slid out of the bed, padded first to the light switch and plunged the room into darkness with one flick of his hand. Chuck stared at the ceiling and listened to Bryce walk to the bathroom, rummage through the duffel bag for something. When he returned to the bed, he pulled Chuck into his arms, encouraged Chuck to lean into his non-injured shoulder.

Chuck asked, staring down at where the curve of Bryce's shoulder met the pillows in the dark and quiet, "I've been compromised, haven't I?"

Bryce continued to run his soothing fingers up and down Chuck's neck, occasionally buried them in Chuck's hair to rub comforting circles against his scalp.

"They're taking me in." It wasn't a question this time.

Bryce remained silent, dragged his short nails gently against Chuck's skin.

"Will I ever get to see Ellie, or, or Morgan, or—" Chuck choked, had to swallow the words down before he could start again. "Will I see _anyone_ again?"

Bryce pressed a kiss to Chuck's temple.

"At least—I'll see you, right?" Chuck asked.

Bryce's only answer was to guide Chuck's head up, to pull him in for another kiss, lips soft, almost apologetic against Chuck's own. One of his hands remained resting against Chuck's neck. The other drew away, off to the side.

Chuck closed his eyes, imagined for a moment pulling away with the excuse that he needed to use the restroom. He'd grab the sedative from the first aid kit and return to bed, inject it quick and with no small regret into Bryce's shoulder, say, "I'm sorry," and "Come catch me," before pressing one last (but not truly final) kiss to Bryce's mouth, then secret away in the night. He'd had practice in the spy's life, in being kidnapped and in running away. He wouldn't be able to escape (didn't want to escape), but he'd buy himself time, time to enjoy the feel of the sun on his skin as a free man, time to see Bryce once more before being taken in.

"I'm sorry," Bryce spoke, whispered against Chuck's mouth.

Chuck felt a small, sharp sting in his side, then the burn of liquid plunging in. Everything went light and woozy, and maybe Chuck should have been indignant that Bryce was always a step ahead of him, but the truth was, it had only been a fantasy. Chuck didn't want to run from Bryce. He just didn't want to be left behind again.

"Bryce?" Chuck said as the world slowly tumbled sideways, and he buried his face in Bryce's neck, not entirely of his own volition. "It's okay. I forgive you," Chuck mumbled—or tried to mumble—but things were sliding quickly away, and the last thing he thought he remembered was the feel of Bryce gently running his hands through his hair again.

—

When Chuck opened his eyes, it was to daylight streaming into yet another car, a dark blue sedan. He was restrained only by a seat-belt, and the door next to him didn't even have the child safety lock engaged, though Chuck had no intention of jumping out when the speedometer indicated they were creeping from 60 to 65 mph. Chuck blinked tiredly at Bryce, inscrutable behind a pair of sunglasses he'd picked up between the hotel and whatever back country road they were speeding down.

"No highways?" Chuck asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Bryce's lips twitched, and he looked almost pained. "I thought I'd wake up in a helicopter," Chuck said, remembering the helipad the night before Devon proposed to his sister. "Or a padded cell."

"You were supposed to," Bryce said.

"What happened?"

Bryce looked at Chuck, and his eyes were faintly visible behind the tinted glass. They weren't quite soft, but they were surprisingly open, exasperated and almost bewildered.

"The road!" Chuck said. "Watch the road!"

Bryce let out a sort of laughing sigh and returned his attention to the road. "We're in the middle of fields," he said. "I'm pretty sure we'll be fine."

"What happened?" Chuck asked again.

"You did," Bryce said, like that explained anything, like for him, that explained _everything_.

His right hand drifted from the wheel to catch at Chuck's left, and—looking down at their hands joined together, then out the passenger window to the ascending sun— Chuck rather supposed it did.


End file.
